Twelve Years of His Life
by Cybele3
Summary: Ch. 10 update to the Niles Diary...
1. April 3, 1986

AUTHOR'S NOTES  
  
This is a piece I began working on several years ago, then dropped because I thought no one would really be all that interested in the interior workings of Niles' and Maris' relationship. However, now that she's back in center (non-)view on the show, I thought this might go over better.  
  
A warning: This is not a fast-moving "potboiler," as they say, where there's a new plot turn every other paragraph. It's much more concernced with the psychological evolution of their relationship and what that reveals about Niles' character than it is with dramatic events. If that's not your thing, it may bore you. However, it's not entirely devoid of plot either, and I've tried to stay very faithful to the characters as they are on the show. So now you know. :)  
  
Feedback is very, very welcome. I'll be posting a chapter or two a day right up to the point where I stopped writing years ago, so you can figure on at least ten or so chapters. (Each chapter will be one diary entry, by the way, which means some chapters will be very short and some very long. Oh, and also by the way, like I said, the beginning chapters will be two years old, so if the writing strikes you as crappy, remember, I was a youngun' back then. ;)) However, if people don't seem interested in the story - in other words, if I don't get any feedback - I'll probably leave it at that. So if you like it, let me know, and I'll see that you get more. :)  
  
Without further ado.  
  
Twelve Years of His Life: A Diary of the Maris Years  
  
April 3, 1986  
  
Met a woman at Cafe Nervosa today. Quite an attractive woman, too. So, of course, I panicked. I began by introducing myself as Criles Nane; then, asking her to join me for coffee, my hands shook so badly that I spilled my own all over her front (and down her decolletage; that damned swooping neckline was part of the reason I spilled it in the first place). Why did I even bother, anyway? If only I had been raised Catholic I could become a priest and put an end to this miserable frustration forever. I'd be forced to reconcile myself. By now I don't see any option other than to give up - if only my head could convince my heart (and hormones) of the fact. I'm twenty-nine and I have never been in a serious relationship... good God, I'm a twenty-nine year old virgin. Every so often that hits me fully, and I wonder if there's anyone in this world quite so pathetic as I.  
  
I can't discuss this with anybody. It's not like I have any close friends; there were some at Yale, but we drifted apart after college, and so I have nobody. How does one even go about making friends? I really haven't any idea. When I was young, I had Frasier, of course. When he left for college, I suffered through the remaining years of prep school, borne up by my sense that I was smarter than the rest, that that was my place in the world. At that point I could be at the top of the class and a teacher's pet, and that was consolation enough. And there was Mother. At Yale, and later at Cambridge, there were friendships of proximity: roommates, classmates, clubs. But what is one to do when one's on one's own, living an adult life?  
  
In high society, of course, there are no mysteries. There are certain people you must approach and with whom it behooves you to become acquainted; if you secure a friendly relationship with them, then you're in, and presto-chango, you have a circle. Of course, there is a distinct procedure to the act of initiating such an acquaintanceship. And naturally it's a tenuous bond at first, requiring a separate series of steps in order to strengthen and cement the relationship - but it's almost scientific in its precision, the lack of gray areas. It's all laid out very clearly, which is wonderful. Ah, the dance of elitism... But I'm not nearly well enough established in my field to have any hope of breaking into any such circle. Mother's status as a fairly eminent psychiatrist would be something of an in, I suppose, but then there's Dad, with his blue-collar background - and he is the parent who's still living. No, I'll have to wait for that - wait till I attain some recognition as a psychiatrist in my own right. For the moment, I'm at a loss.  
  
But, of course, it isn't the lack of friendships which bothers me so much. My life certainly isn't lacking in personal interaction; helping my patients through their problems is extremely gratifying, almost like an idealized friendship - a friendship where I am truly needed and where my advice matters. Where I matter. I suppose most of the purpose of friendship is to provide mutual help. So I've got that down. But I want a woman. There, I've said it. In fact, I'll go further. I want sex. I'm sick of dreaming and, er, well, you know. oh, of course I know, and who else is going to read this? But I don't just want sex, either. I want someone to come home to - someone to care about and care for - someone to love. (Isn't that some wretched song by - oh, how would I know who it's by? I've heard it on the radio. The chorus goes "Can anybody find me somebody to love?" Oh, dear Lord, when I start looking to popular rock and roll hits to express my emotions, I must indeed be in dire straits.) You know, at this point I'm not even sure I understand the concept of love. I love my family, of course, but that's inevitable. Half my patients come to me and confide that they love their parents or siblings and hate them at the same time. I long to experience the searing rapture which has inspired most of the most magnificent works of art, even as I admit that I haven't the faintest conception what such a searing rapture would actually feel like. What does it mean to love someone passionately - that merging of soul (and, yes, body) which has preoccupied all the greatest poets, prosaists, and artists for centuries? I read Shakespearean sonnets and I feel that they might as well be written in Sanskrit.  
  
Can anybody find me somebody to love? 


	2. April 5, 1986

April 5, 1986  
  
Rereading my last entry, I discovered how petulant I am (not to mention incoherent.) There is nothing wrong with my life right now. I have a thriving practice and plenty of intellectual stimulation. If I'm more or less alone, well, many of the greatest geniuses of all time lived and thought alone. It doesn't matter. I am content. 


	3. May 13, 1986: Helloooooo, Maris

May 13, 1986  
  
In what has to be one of the strangest situations of my life, I met a woman today. A very... interesting woman. I was driving home from work, through what is easily the ritziest section of the state of Washington, and as I passed a perfectly enormous mansion there was a tiny woman, dressed all in black and banging on the gates with a tire iron. Obviously enough, she had been locked out of her estate (the gates, she told me, are electrified. I believe her, although I don't understand how she could bang on them with a metal projectile without being electrocuted. Perhaps she meant the barbed wire at the top was electrified.) When she heard my car approaching she turned around and waved her arm, although I didn't notice this last for a moment because its girth was just about that of the bars of the gate. Of course I stopped anyway. She was attractive in a very... she seemed rather... actually, she's quite difficult to describe. As far as the basics go, her hair was a unique shade of blond, pulled back tightly into a bun from which no stray strand could possibly escape, and her features were exquisitely proportioned and very clear-cut. It was a beautiful face, but there were no curves to it. And her eyes were hidden by sunglasses, even though I came upon her around nine pm. She explained that her corneas are sensitive to light. Ah, well.  
  
Even if the beauty she possessed was distinctly - the connotations for "unique" aren't what I'm looking for here; I suppose you'd have to say "odd" - well, anyway, despite that, she was nevertheless a beautiful woman, and I expected to revert immediately to my Criles Nane persona. However, I was quite at ease in inquiring if she needed help, and if I could be of service. Perhaps it was that she did need help. I wasn't the supplicant in this exchange. That may have made all the difference. At any rate, I gave her a ride to the nearest town, where she was able to phone her house and instruct her servants to let her in. She was quite harsh with her maid on the phone, and spoke of firing her; but then, the woman did do wrong to lock her mistress out of the estate. Quite likely she was drunk, or entertaining inappropriately.  
  
The conversation between Maris - I'd forgotten to mention it, that's the name of the woman whom I rescued - and me was minimal during the ride to the town and then on the ride back. It was an uncomfortable silence, I suppose, but a very different kind of discomfort than that which I generally experience in the company of an attractive woman. At any rate, I did manage to gather the courage to give her my phone number at the end of the ride. I told her that if she ever needed help again, she could call on me. A good way of salvaging my self-esteem if she doesn't call.  
  
So we'll wait and see. In the meantime, I've been reading an intriguing first-person account of one woman's struggle with obsessive-compulsive disorder and its impact on the sufferer's personal and romantic interactions - it truly sheds new light on the inner workings of the obsessive-compulsive patient's mind... 


	4. May 21, 1986

May 21, 1986  
  
Maris did call. I was shocked. I had written her off almost as soon as I'd dropped her off, as I do with every woman. This is the first time I've been wrong. At any rate, she wanted me to bring her Mercedes to the mechanic's. She said her chauffeur had unwisely attempted to aid one of her grooms in grooming down a stallion at her stables and had been trampled and severely injured. I was a bit confused at first, that she was calling on me as a substitute chauffeur. Then I remembered that, of course, I had told her to call me if she needed any help. She'd taken that quite literally, apparently.  
  
Frasier's been gone for years, and yet his voice still rings so clearly in my head. I can just hear him explaining to me patiently but firmly that this woman is trouble, a high- society snob who will use me as long as I let her...  
  
Would it be terrible if I said I don't particularly care?  
  
She is high society. The highest of high society. That mansion she lives in - oh, to glimpse the inside, just once... And isn't it possible that she's calling on me to assist her in menial tasks because it's the only way she knows to open a relationship? To invite me to a ball (a ball! a Seattle society ball - the very word!) or some such would of course be quite forward. And that would also mean that she would be making the first move, so to speak. The first important move. Giving her my number was merely a preliminary action. In all honesty, as I think about it, I am convinced that she asked me to bring her car to the mechanic's simply as a way of opening the door for me to ask her out. Traditional gender roles are, of course, important. The fact that she called me at all indicates that she's interested. It's up to me to ask her on a first date.  
  
But how am I to do that? Of course I'm not poor, no psychiatrist truly is. But I only left medical school a few years ago, and my earnings are really only middle-of-the-road compared with what my better-known colleagues make. And I suspect that that woman will settle for nothing but the best in cuisine and entertainment. I would adore a fine gourmet meal - I'm thoroughly sick of dining at mediocre restaurants, when I dine out at all - but I don't know how I'll afford it.  
  
Well, I'll just have to save. This woman could be my ticket to - to everything. I mustn't let her slip away.  
  
I should have mentioned that I agreed to take her car to the mechanic's when she called me. Actually, it might be fun, driving a Mercedes even briefly. It is, of course, my dream car. Someday... 


	5. May 23, 1986

May 23, 1986  
  
I brought Maris' car to the mechanic's today. It took him a good two hours to fix it, and I had to wait, but I didn't mind, much. I didn't quite know what to do with myself - there was absolutely nothing else in the area, so I was forced to wait in the little office adjacent to the garage, where you pay for the repairs. The only magazine there was Popular Mechanic, so I had to sit very quietly with my hands clasped on my knees and try to reconstruct the history of the conductors of the New York Philharmonic. When the repairs were finished, the cost was $300, and it was only then that I realized that Maris hadn't given me any money. I wrote a check.  
  
When I brought the car back, she thanked me but didn't invite me in. I summoned up all my courage and asked her if she'd like to go out for dinner sometime. She stared at me for a moment without speaking - thanks to the sunglasses, I had absolutely no idea what she was thinking - then asked me what restaurant. I was flustered, but told her Guy Savoy - I've never eaten there, sadly, but it consistently receives five- star ratings. She studied me a moment longer, then agreed. I suggested next Friday. She said yes.  
  
And so I have a date. My first date in - well, let's not go there. I'm going to be scrimping and saving for quite awhile afterward (I never did remember to ask her for the $300), but it's worth it, for a shot at a relationship with such an exquisite woman. 


	6. June 2, 1986: First Date

June 2, 1986  
  
My first date with Maris was tonight. It was interesting. She isn't the most loquacious person in the world. But then, I don't think I'd want that. Reticence is far more tolerable than endless palaver. I supplied most of the talking, which makes me worry that she will think I was monopolizing the conversation. Perhaps I should have kept quiet and allowed us to enjoy our meal in peace.  
  
She's a funny little eater. She's not quite anorexic, but she doesn't have far to go. She chose the most expensive wine on the menu, but only took three or four sips, explaining that wine is too highly caloric. For her meal itself she ordered the consomme brunoise, to eat perhaps an eighth of the bowl; between each spoonful she would stir it counterclockwise exactly four times. When I suggested that she sample my dish, the coulibiac of salmon, which was exquisite, she stared at me for a very, very long time, without saying a word... When it came time for dessert, her taste for confections equally delicious and expensive came clear: the wondrous concoction of chocolate and cream and pastry which she ordered cost me twenty-four dollars. However, she didn't take a bite of it. She simply inhaled the fragrance for several minutes, and then sent it back. When I suggested that we take it home, she told me she wouldn't eat it; when I suggested, laughing timidly, that I would, she said simply, "I thought this was my dessert." It was sent back.  
  
When we were leaving, however, she said, "I assume you'll pick me up at the same time next week?" I said yes. For all her foibles, there's something about the woman... 


	7. July 15, 1986

July 15, 1986  
  
I'm going to have to take on some more patients in order to support my relationship with Maris. My savings account is depleting at an amazing rate. In the evenings, I've been working especially hard on my research on gestalt therapy. If I can manage a groundbreaking article on that fascinating topic, I'll be able to raise my rates considerably. I don't feel that I can raise them in all conscience until I'm better- established.  
  
I'm somewhat envious of Frasier, who's apparently doing so well for himself in Boston. He never calls home; he seems to want to forget that he has any relatives. It does hurt. We were so close as boys. I miss his constant presence. I often resented his endless advice and near-management of my life, but I will admit that he is quite insightful. Perhaps he could help me with my conflicts over my relationship with Maris...  
  
But then, Frasier's interpretations were always rather - well, not simple, but too dependent on - what I want to say is common sense. That doesn't sound right. But I do feel, as a psychiatrist, that the most obvious, "common-sensical" answers are not always the right ones. He would dismiss Maris as worthless in a few sentences. I feel that there's something there, something Frasier would miss. Something most of the world would miss. Something that perhaps only I can see...  
  
I'm talking as if I'm in love with the woman, aren't I? Perhaps I am. As I said, I've never really understood what passion and romantic love are all about. It seems to be a rather indescribable thing. Certainly Maris and I aren't exactly Romeo and Juliet. But something in me calls out to her, or something in her calls out to me. We - the best way I can think to put it is that we fit one another. She needs me, that's obvious. She's confided in me that she doesn't like being alone. I suppose it is lonely in that Brobdingnagian estate (I learned early on that she doesn't interact with the servants on a personal level at all.) It's impossible to ignore the fact that she's somewhat demanding - but isn't that, in its own way, an expression of love? In making endless demands of me, she's saying "I need you." I believe that that is a form of love.  
  
As for me... do I need her?  
  
That's a harder question to answer. I - you know, being a psychiatrist by trade requires enough psychological analysis during the day. Must I spend my nights analyzing myself?  
  
She needs me. I need a woman. Why am I making this so hard? The answer is obvious. 


	8. November 2, 1986: First Kiss

November 2, 1986  
  
Maris allowed me to kiss her for the first time tonight. A very soft kiss, and yet I felt as if my heart were about to explode. She's been so averse to any sort of physical contact that I really felt as if I'd achieved a breakthrough in our relationship. She was very still as I kissed her. I suppose she has some fear of intimacy. I've tried to get her to open up with me, but I haven't had much luck. If she were a patient I would characterize her as incredibly recalcitrant. I feel sure that she must have significant psychological issues, perhaps with her family, that would lead to her self-isolation and emotional inaccessibility. However, she won't let me in, so to speak. Well, that could be literal as well as figurative, really - I still haven't seen the inside of the manor. She's never invited me in. I'm reluctant to invite her back to my apartment; it certainly isn't anything to be ashamed of by most people's standards, but then, Maris is not most people. I dread that she'll realize somehow that the life I lead with her is really beyond my means, and that I live very much more frugally. Luckily, the research on gestalt therapy is going nicely; I'm really beginning to put it together now. I have the distinct suspicion that in a year's time my name will be much more widely known. That will be a relief in so many ways. I'll be closer to being Maris' social equal; I'll be able to look Frasier in the face (if I ever see his face again) and know that I am as well-respected as he; my career will take off. Funny, that I should list the career last... now, quiet, inner Niles, you've done enough analysis for the day. 


	9. January 1, 1987: New Year's

January 1, 1987

I had such high hopes for this evening. For the first time, Maris invited me to her home. I'm ashamed to admit that I thought, for a moment, that she was asking me... well, that she was ready to consummate our relationship. Obviously a vain hope, when I look back on it - the woman allowed me to kiss her for the first time barely two months ago, did I really believe she was ready to take the relationship to the next level? - but, after all, we have been seeing each other for almost seven months now. And my humiliation knows no bounds as I am forced to relate that I actually went to the bookstore and bought a book on sexual technique. _The Joy of Sex. _(The echo of Betty Crocker in the title somehow made it seem less sordid than the rest.) I had to drive out of the city and several towns over before I could feel comfortable making the purchase, and even then I felt as if I might simply keel over from embarrassment as I presented my purchase to the (very) female cashier; if I'd been trafficking in nuclear weapons I could hardly have been more circumspect, or more ashamed. But I needed to do it. I can't let on to Maris, when we do finally make love for the first time, that I'm a virgin. She needs someone who's able to perform with skill and finesse in bed. Not some fumble-fingered terrified first-timer...

It was all useless, of course, because she had had nothing of the sort in mind when she invited me to her estate. I couldn't get over the place when I first stepped inside. Cavernous rooms. The most exquisite of Orientals in many of the rooms; in others the hardwood had been polished till it gleamed. Can you believe that she has three grand pianos scattered throughout the mansion? And she doesn't even play. Of course, I didn't exactly get a tour - I suppose that would have taken the better part of a year. But it was quite a walk from the front door to the sitting room, where we spent most of the night. I swear, that house spans several time zones. 

As for what we did, I can't help but be rather disappointed. We watched the Times Square celebration on TV for most of the night. I sensed that Maris was excruciatingly bored - or perhaps that was transference of my own soporific ennui onto her. I felt that I should do something to entertain her, to be a better companion, but I didn't know what to do. She wasn't in the mood to talk, that was clear - well, but when is she ever in the mood to talk, exactly? That must be my fault as well. Surely a better conversationalist would be able to draw her out. And almost certainly a better psychiatrist would be able to break through that wall she's built around herself. Sometimes I'm alarmed by the degree to which I think of Maris in the same light as my patients. The only real difference is that she seems more severely damaged than any of them. There are times when I feel that this relationship is more like a project than an actual romantic connection. She's so damn needy. And as I think about it, that's one of the things I've always liked most about her. Maybe I should be seeing a psychiatrist myself.

But am I really considering throwing this relationship away simply because - because - because, oh, hell. I don't even know why I would think that, to be honest. I hadn't even realized I was considering it until I wrote it down. This woman cares for me. She's not very demonstrative, but I can feel it. And it is the only long-term relationship I have ever had. My thirtieth birthday is coming up next month. If I dump Maris, I will almost certainly spend the rest of my life alone. It's a miracle that any woman could care for me, let alone the absolute pinnacle of Seattle _haut monde._ My current confusion is very likely nothing more than the standard jitters which any man would feel upon embarking on a serious relationship for the first time in thirty years. I know I can get through to Maris, melt through that film of ice which encases her. Recently, Dad compared her to an ice sculpture. I was too furious to reply (it's not as if I would have introduced them in the first place if I could have helped it; he happened into Cafe Nervosa one time when we were together, and what was he doing there?) Maris is not an ice sculpture. I chose the word "film" very carefully. Underneath that thin skin of frigidity, there is a warm, passionate, loving woman. I'm sure of it. And if I can be the one to melt that layer of ice - if I can be the one to help her to experience the world wholly for the first time - then her heart will be mine, and I will have found myself a soulmate with whom I can share the rest of my life. 


	10. February 22, 1987: The Birthday Party

February 22, 1987

Maris's birthday was tonight. What a disaster. To begin with, I only realized it was her birthday because I happened to glance at her driver's license about a month back. I should have known from the mere fact that she didn't tell me about it that she was sensitive about her age. Thirty-four this year; I just didn't expect that she would have such a strong reaction. If she were turning thirty, or forty, it would be more understandable... At any rate, I was undeniably asinine, but I certainly paid for it.

I began by bringing her to Emilio's - the newest and most exclusive restaurant in Seattle. But alas, Maris could find nothing on the menu which was low-cal enough for her tastes. She's gained three-quarters of a pound in the last month, as she has informed me anxiously at least eight times - I really ought to have known that bringing her out to dinner wasn't the best idea. The chef became offended when she asked for the _bouillabaisse provencale_ sans lobster and eel and - well, pretty much everything, leaving flavored broth. In an effort to smooth things over, I had the waiter bring us the standard dish, and picked everything out for Maris. At that point she didn't want to look at the leavings (to tell the truth, neither did I), so I wrapped them in several napkins. Later in the meal I knocked a wine glass over onto Maris' side of the table, and hastily grabbed at the first napkin which came to hand - of course, one of the ones with the slimy, dripping pieces of eel and lobster and leeks and all the rest in them. I unfolded it so quickly and pushed it toward the mess in such haste that all the contents went spilling into Maris' lap, all over her Versace dress. She burst into tears and ran to the ladies' room. I attempted to follow her, but of course I couldn't go into the ladies' room itself, and was reduced to calling through the door to her. She wouldn't respond, and I'm not sure whether the majority of the patrons believe me to be a pervert or a lunatic, but six of one...

When she came back her lipstick was redder than ever, and I knew I was in trouble. The waiters chose that inauspicious moment to bring out the birthday cake I had ordered - a magnificent tiered raspberry mousse cake, decorated with white chocolate rosettes and dusted with imported Dutch cocoa. By way of adding comic levity, I had found a little cartoony-looking man to place on the top, holding a sign which said "You're 34!" Maris actually screamed. Not only did she fling her drink at me, she threw the entire glass directly into my face, so that I have several nasty cuts at the moment - one on my forehead, one on my cheek, and a particularly noisome one starting on my bottom lip and trailing down my chin. She then leaped up, shoved her chair into the table so hard that it caught me in the chest and knocked the wind out of me, and sailed out the door. (I don't just mean that as a figure of speech, either. Moving that fast, her coat caught the wind stirred up by the overhead fan, and I could swear that she flew the last twelve feet.) I was left with the entirety of the restaurant staring at me, including the senator and a man who Dad assures me, from the special edition of the society page which came out that night just hours after the incident, is a player on the Seahawks. The senator would be bad enough, but for a talented athlete to witness such a scene happening to me brings me right back to my high school days - I was dangling naked from a flagpole all over again. I thought I was getting past that; in reality I've just gotten away from it for the most part.

But it's not as if that matters a straw compared to the fact that I have surely doomed my relationship with Maris. The central aspect of my life for the past nine months, all gone in the blink of a wine-stung eye. I don't know how to approach this at all. I must try to win her back, but how am I to do that? Perhaps I'll think better in the morning, when my eyes don't smart quite as much. That sounds as if I'm holding back tears, but I really think it's just the wine. Well, I should try to look on the bright side. It could have been worse. After all, since the incident occurred after the main course, it was her dessert Muscat that she threw at me, which does, after all, have relatively low acidity. To think that if it had happened fifteen minutes earlier I'd have gotten a faceful of Chateauneuf-du-Pape - imagine what a terrible attack _that _would have been!


End file.
